


Yours and Mine

by blancpeony



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Friendship, Gen, Soulmarks, Team MI6 - Freeform, soul imprints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blancpeony/pseuds/blancpeony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His skin absorbed colours like paper.</p><p>Five times Q was imprinted and the one time he wasn't. Though, that one time only just delayed the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours and Mine

_1_

His parents died in a car accident five months into his employment with MI6, a time when he was only addressed by his surname. Although working in a challenging environment, he had safety in relative anonymity as a low level boffin so foul play was ruled out early in the investigation.

(He didn't know when he began to count his days like that – with MI6 at the beginning and end of his thoughts. National security became his constant and it _showed_.)

He found out when he was getting ready for his night shift after a twelve hour crash on his bed. It started normally enough – alarm, cats, food. Fitting in a shower before work, he stood half asleep on his feet, going through familiar motions only to pause midway during dressing. Hurriedly dragging his hand across the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation, he stared at his tired form.

Dark and wet curls.

Long lanky coltish limbs.

And most significantly, sickly pale skin in places where there should have been a splash of vibrant red and orange, not this faded parody.

A cold hand squeezed his heart and dropped a stone into his stomach.

“No...What...”

Skin as blank as the day he was born.

Shaking, searching hands touched the washed out, once lovely wine red from his mother, a gentle hand print over his heart. _There_ , the now muted, bright cheerful orange of his father, a steady hand on his shoulder. The imprinted manifestation of his parents' souls were disappearing right before his eyes even as his personal phone in the next room over began to ring ominously.

 

* * *

 

_2_

Marking. Soul imprinting. The scientific community termed it manifestation. Others, less eloquently, explained it as leaving bits and pieces of ones self onto another person. Manifestations created a psychological tie between the marked parties, keeping them grounded. Some purported that if the imprinting was strong enough, even sensory perceptions could be relayed.

This phenomenon could be traced back to the earliest historical records, descriptions found in hallowed texts and ancient writings. There were sects that considered it supernatural, linking it to the higher powers. During the short history of mankind, many wars were waged due to differing beliefs surrounding this binding.

Even now, this extensively studied occurrence remains a point of contention between factions; there were still aspects that could not be fully explained that people have taken to calling it, rather pretentiously, as the 'human factor'.

What could be explained though, mankind explored and manipulated it to their wills.

It took a week into his promotion, a position made available when his predecessor quietly retired, before he was called for his first solo meeting with M. Standing at attention in front of her desk, Q refrained from fidgeting. The sky was a grey overcast behind the stern-faced woman as she set aside the folders denoting Q-Branch.

“Q.” Her words were sharp and to the point, eyes tracking his reaction. “As the head of Q-Branch, you will be marked to me.”

Q remained silent, expecting this, though he wasn't sure how triumphant science was over biology. Manifestation required the 'human factor'. Marks could only be made if done willingly between two people who maintained a relationship or connection; the manifestation faded by death or if relationships weren't fostered.

M pressed the intercom. “Tanner.”

The door to the office opened and Dr. Michaels, head of medical, strode in, a case in hand. He nodded at both M and Q in greeting.

“If you will, Dr. Michaels.”

“Of course M. If you and Q could please expose your arms, I will prepare the syringes.”

Q licked his dry lips as he questioned, “Syringes?” His fingers worried at a shirt button, indecisive.

M regarded him. “Afraid of needles, Quartermaster?”

He knew he was turning red around the neck from embarrassment; he could feel the heat creeping below the surface of his skin, sweat prickling. Swallowing, Q said, “No, not at all.” Unbuttoning his shirt, he revealed his unmarked torso and proffered his left arm to the doctor.

Michaels spoke calmly, explaining for the benefit of Q as he prepped the needle, “Common side effects include minor discomforts like nausea, headaches or rashes. Symptoms can last up to forty-eight hours. If it gets any worse or the symptoms prolong, go to medical. Now, let's get into position...”

He injected the cold serum into his upper arm. A beat later, M pressed her knuckle against his skin, leaving a mark edged and spotted with black.

Nodding in satisfaction, M removed her blazer, revealing a sleeveless blouse underneath and two neat rows of marks edged in black on both arms. Q was quick to count and match the marks on the right arm to the approximate number of department heads during her tenure and the marks of the left arm to the number of active double-ohs, that is if 007 was still alive and didn't perish in Istanbul. Unless they assigned a new 007 without alerting Q-Branch...

Q backed a step when M shifted on her heels, holding her right arm up and pivoting her left arm out of sight. Michaels proficiently repeated the action with their boss, injecting the serum beneath a row of other chemically-induced manifestations. Carefully, Q marked her skin above the puncture, a green he hadn't seen in awhile, marred by black, appearing before his eyes.

Married to his work was certainly taking on a new meaning.

 

* * *

 

_3_

A polite knock on his office door heralded their chief of staff. Q looked up from his tinkering and greeted, “Tanner. What can I do for you today?”

The unassuming man replied, “Q, do you have a moment?”

Q, then R, had worked with Tanner extensively prior to his promotion and had seen that expression enough times to understand that something was afoot.

Without waiting for an affirmative, Tanner brought a set of documents forward and set them onto Q's desk. He summarized candidly, “HR wants us to imprint each other.”

Tanner nearly stumbled over the word 'imprint' and Q could sympathize. As someone whose last mark on his persons denoted him as government property, no marks that named him someone's _son_ or _friend_ or _partner_ , he too would have trouble rolling that word on his tongue.

And maybe that was why HR told Tanner to come down here.

Flipping through the memo casually, Q shrugged, “I guess the psych team got nervous having an unbound person running a branch.” The boffin looked up at Tanner through his lashes but his voice was as dry as the Sahara Desert, “Do you have a preferred spot?”

“What-?”

“That...” Eyebrows knitted together, Q faltered, “That is what people normally ask each other, before...right?”

Tanner offered a wan smile. “Ah, yes, right.” Giving up on articulation, he asked, “Arm?”

Much afterwards, with the awkward situation (that had a touch of _warmth_ behind it) filed away and Q was alone again, he took a moment to look at Bill's aqua print. It was situated just below the black spots left by the chemical injection, the Skyfall incident fading away the royal purple to skin. And if he took satisfaction that at least this manifestation wasn't chemically-induced, he shared it with no one.

(Not that he had anyone to share it with anyway.)

 

* * *

 

_4_

“My previous position certainly didn't require _this_.”

“M.” Q nearly spilled his tea as he jolted in his seat, startled, before standing up quickly to address Mallory.

“Quartermaster.” M stepped into his office and shut the door. “Your windows.”

“Of course.” Q flicked the switch, turning the glass-like material of his office walls from transparent to opaque. As he did so, M approached his desk and dropped a familiar looking case onto his desk.

Opening and revealing the contents, M gave him a wry look. “I have a feeling that by the end of this month, my arms will be glad that this is over.”

“Sir?”

It was a surprisingly informal affair in contrast to his first experience with M – with _Mansfield_. M – Mallory – seemed to be taking this in stride and took his questioning look as agreement.

“Imprinting today.”

“Dr. Michaels...?”

“He will not be joining us.” Removing his arm from his shirt, M revealed a shoulder with splashes of colour but only one economical blackened print on his upper right arm; Q's would be his second of the head of branches. The boffin wasn't quite sure how to react to that – flattered or wary?

“Well Q, if you can do the honours.” M handed him the syringe, letting Q mark him, watching the blackened green form.

Repeating this with roles reversed, Q allowed M to imprint to the right of where Mansfield's mark would have been if she was still living.

It was completed in a strange silence.

As Q donned his shirt, he ignored the itch of the chemicals and willed the ruddy red of embarrassment – of _shame_ , of _inadequacy_ , of _brokenness_ – away.

M nodded, not with pity but with compassion, “Thank you Quartermaster.”

 

* * *

 

_5_

Checking his watch again, he waited impatiently in line for his morning coffee. It was exceptionally busy; the café was packed with a variety of commuters including a few regulars he could recognize.

“Good morning.”

Pulled out of his irritation, he turned to his right, surprised, “Miss Moneypenny.”

Eve Moneypenny smiled benignly and Q jealously noted, already in possession of her drink. “Getting your caffeine fix?”

“Yes, me and half of London it seems.” Q sighed. “At this rate I'll be late.”

“Ah.” She made a sympathetic noise. “Early morning meeting?”

The boffin nodded. “Though I'm sure you're just as busy.”

“True.” She had a sly look. “Not busy enough to skip lunch though. Any time available to join Bill and I for lunch today?”

A familiar ping from his phone distracted them. “Hm. Hold that thought.” Taking the mobile out, he greeted blandly, “Universal Exports.”

“ _Q! Agent Roberts is conducting an unsanctioned chase near your location-”_

A sharp whine and loud roar of an engine ate the conversation even as Moneypenny forcibly pushed him down. “-Duck!”

It was followed by a loud _crunch_ and _crash_.

“Shit.” Heart pounding, Q saw the mangled remains of a motorcycle sail over their heads and skid into the wall, injuring a few bystanders.

The ex-field agent grabbed his wrist urgently. “We have to move.”

“Right.” Shaky, he scrambled up, listening to the panicked chatter on the other end of the mobile line.

“ _Are you alright sir?!”_

Tugged along by Moneypenny, he angrily griped back, _“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?!”_

It was only later in the day after the whole debacle with Agent Roberts was sorted out (M was understandably apoplectic) did Eve Moneypenny enter his office, apologetic in demeanour.

“Miss Moneypenny.” Q blinked. “You're wearing a different dress.”

“Astute observation, Quartermaster. As I had my morning drink all over my clothes, I felt it was necessary to change.” Much to his bemusement, Moneypenny then proceeded to hand him the cup of tea and scone that she brought with her. She canted her hip to the left, arms held loosely to the sides. “I know it takes two to tango, _etcetera_ , but it was still wrong of me to do so without your expressed permission.”

Q placed the treats onto his desk and said slowly, “I'm afraid I'm not sure what you are referring to.”

“Well.” Eve then handed him two compact mirrors. “You may want to take a look at the back of your neck.”

Checking the reflection, he could see a bright yellow right angled print, a finger curled on the side, peeking above his collar.

“Sorry Q. It must have happened when I pulled you to the ground today.”

Still silently examining the mark, he didn't voice to Moneypenny that hers was the first not associated with familial ties or created due to the direct machinations of SIS.

She pushed the mirror away gently and said earnestly, “You have my permission to return the mark, if you'd like.”

Q swallowed inaudibly. “It's only fair, I suppose.”

“Perfect.” She untucked the end of her blouse from her dress, explaining plainly, “1 prefer somewhere more discreet.”

An expanse of skin was revealed on her left hip. Moneypenny noticed his eyes lingering on the light blue streak.

“In case I shot him again.” Eve rolled her eyes fondly. “So I can be certain.”

 

* * *

 

_+1_

Q couldn't help the parting snipe. “Will you be driving that into the river too?”

“Your smart blood technology will tell you where I am,” Bond shrugged. “If I get dangerously close to a river...”

“Smart Blood has been deleted from the system.”

The double-oh said dryly, “I'm sure.”

There was a protracted silence. He knew what the agent wanted, why he lingered; it wasn't just the car.

Q, assessing, boldly took ground instead of giving it. “If I really wanted to know if you're still alive, I could ask Miss Moneypenny.”

Bond's expression was unreadable. “There's that.”

He turned away first, resolute, because he refused to be connected yet left behind. Even he knew it doesn't work that way. “Good bye, Bond.”

“Good bye, Quartermaster.”

\--

When Bond returned six months later, chased back to London by the remnants of SPECTRE, Q allowed 007 to mark him, _ice blue_ , just below where Eve's mark resided on his neck, no longer needing to question his intentions. The returned DB5 in working condition was apology enough.

Returning the gesture, Q's _forest green_ was behind his right ear, discreet but ever present.

And if Q lingered on the marks left by his team (team!) from time to time, a number that extended to the other double-ohs after James Bond, he still wasn't sharing that tidbit of knowledge with anyone. Although MI6 had compassion, they weren't _that_ sentimental.

Oddly, or perhaps not, that was enough for Q.

 

 


End file.
